The Road Not Taken
by Eclectic Muse
Summary: For every decision we make in our lives, an alternate reality spins off from the might-have been. Eleven meets Amy nine years too late and a completely different history is written for them. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** Completely unbeta'd because I was so nervous about writing this that I was too scared to ask for one! I hate using the AU excuse for writing whatever the hell I want, but this bunny would not leave me alone. Lynch me as you will.

Lastly, we don't know Rory's last name yet so I've given him one. Credit goes to guvnor at Gallifrey Base for coming up with it in the midst of a joke!

* * *

A theory of quantum mechanic states that for every possible outcome of every event, a separate parallel world is formed from the road not taken, resulting in thousands upon thousands of alternate universes. Everything that has conceivably happened in our past - but didn't - has indeed happened somewhere else. The strands of time twist and dance along one another, converging and diverging, spinning into a complex web of might-have-beens. The universe is infinite and mysterious. The possibilities are endless.

In one universe, a man nearing the end of his particular life cycle rages against the dying of the light. It is not his time, he cries, but events have conspired against him. His fight done, he goes out not with a whimper but with a literal bang. The new man that emerges from the ashes finds himself careening through space and time in the flaming wreckage of his ship, eventually crashing headlong into the garden of an eight-year-old girl.

In another universe, the same man determines to hold death at bay for as long as possible. He doesn't want to go. When the end _does _come, the resulting explosion sends a million pieces of debris raining down like stars over the skies of a small English village. In her backyard, a ten-year-old girl nudges her best friend and murmurs that it is awfully early in the summer for a meteor shower.

And in yet another universe, the man realizes the futility of his wishes and abandons himself to the chaotic processes that erase him from life like the ghost of a memory, leaving an entirely different man in his wake. He crash-lands to Earth not in a quaint little garden, but in the trees outside of town. This time there is no young girl outside to see the passing streak of light and wonder about its origins; she has long since grown up.

In one universe, this new man meets a young girl and promises to come back in a snap, as soon as his ship is repaired. When he returns, he discovers that what was seconds for him was fifteen years for her.

In another universe, he never met her at all.

In the last universe, it seemed unlikely that he would meet her. Yet, for just this once, the twisting of the web of cause and effect ensured that they would.

For the man known as the Doctor, these are the events that transpired to pass in the universe of a road not taken.

----------

It was only ten-thirty on Monday morning, but Amy Pond was already yawning.

_This is all Dad's fault,_ she thought grumpily, tapping her pen on her notebook in an effort to stay awake. _If he hadn't been out so late last night and not come home a lousy mess--_

She stifled another yawn behind her fist and ducked her head as a stern woman walked by her desk. The English teacher was droning on about something terribly unimportant dealing with late Romantic literature, and she was finding it difficult to concentrate. She pretended to doodle some notes. _No matter. One more year and I'm done with this place. One more year and hopefully enough A-levels, and I'm out of Leadworth for good. University, here I come._

The A-levels were the shaky point. Amy had always done well in school, but as the years passed and she grew older, she found herself having to take more and more household responsibilities on her shoulders - and it was starting to affect her marks. Not that her father could possibly be persuaded to care. All he cared about was his next drink and that the bills got paid, no nevermind how.

She sighed as another yawn threatened to escape. She supposed she would never be able to say that her father was well-meaning, especially since her mum had skipped town a few years ago. They'd been okay before then, the three of them, even if they weren't exactly idyllic. She'd never had to doubt that her parents loved her. But then Mum had left them for another man, moved away, and barely kept in contact. Amy would never know if her dad's spiral into alcohol came from the pain of being rejected or from the loss of her mother's perceived good influence.

The sleepiness was making her eyes water; she glanced at the clock on the wall. _10:45. Fifteen minutes until class is over. I'm starving. I wonder what the cafeteria's got today._

"... And since Miss Pond evidently thinks she is smart enough to pass this course on her own wits, perhaps she would like to enlighten the class on the answer?"

_Damn! _Amy jerked wide eyes up to Mrs. Morgan, the teacher, and felt her face flush scarlet. "Er ..." She fumbled uselessly with her notes, feeling the eyes of everyone in the class on her. There was nothing for it; she was definitely busted. Finally she clenched her fists in her lap and sighed. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Morgan, I didn't hear the question."

"Which was obvious. Miss Pond, I suggest you make an effort to try and come to school better prepared to learn. You'll get nowhere if all you are content to do is sleep in class."

Nodding miserably, Amy slunk low in her seat as the teacher resumed the lecture, unable to shut out the sounds of a snigger or two from her classmates. Mrs. Morgan had a reputation among the students of Leadworth Secondary School for being a regular old hag, but that had been vicious even for her.

Thankfully, the blessed sound of the bell ringing didn't take too long. Amy shoved her things in her bag and was one of the first out of the door. She made a beeline for the cafeteria, and was relieved to see that Rory had beaten her there. She moved quickly through the lunch line and dropped her tray on the table next to him with a sigh. He smiled cheerfully at her in greeting from around a mouthful of chips, but frowned slightly when he saw her face.

"Bad night?" he asked lightly, but she could hear the sympathy in his voice.

She rolled her eyes and picked up her fork, stabbing it into her spaghetti with more force than necessary. "That's not the half of it," she grumbled. "I swear Mrs. Morgan has it out for me. Stupid bat called me out in front of everybody this morning ... kinda wanted to die."

Rory nodded sagely and popped another chip into his mouth. "I wouldn't take it too hard, Amy. Personally I think she has it out for everyone ... here, I snuck you an extra pudding." He reached into his brown lunch sack and pulled out a small plastic cup, passing it over to her.

Amy accepted it gratefully, abandoning her pasta. It was times like these that she was really glad she knew Rory Mulligan. They'd been best friends for as long as she could remember; they had started out as weekend playmates and by the time adolescence had come along they were practically akin to brother and sister, minus the squabbling. They had survived the occasional jeers of "Amy and Rory, sitting in a tree!" as young teenagers, and as sixth-formers everyone just assumed that where you found one, you could usually find the other. Rory's home life was the mirror opposite of her own: parents that were still together, an older sister in her last year at university, and a mother that doted on her children. Most weekends found Amy at the Mulligan household: doing homework, watching telly, learning how to cook. It was Claire Mulligan who had taught Amy how to be a woman; she was like the mother Amy no longer had.

Rory and his family were the much-needed breath of normalcy Amy needed to counterbalance the worries in her own home. Where her father was loud and argumentative, Rory was pleasant and generally agreeable, and almost never angry. Even though he would never be popular and still clung to vestiges of his inner nerd--she liked to tease him about what she called his 'old man shoes' ("What? They're trainers!") and he still brought his mother's home-cooked lunches to school more often than not--she couldn't have asked for a better friend.

"Rory," she said, smiling as the first bit of chocolate hit her tongue, "what would I do without you?"

He snorted softly. "Survive, I suppose." She kicked him underneath the table and he swung away, holding up his hands and grinning. "I'm joking! No, you would be much cooler without me cramping your style. But you would miss the pudding."

Amy grinned back. "Yes, I would miss the pudding."

The rest of lunch was spent discussing weekend plans--the weather forecast did not look promising, so the telly was looking likely--and was what on for the rest of the week. Amy was on the schedule to work a few hours after school at the general store on Thursday, while Rory was taking the day off school to go to London for his cousin's wedding. When the lunch bell rang they gathered their trash and dumped it in the bin, then bade each other farewell as they went their separate ways to class. They would see each other again in their last class of the day, a science elective.

Food and Rory's banter had raised Amy's spirits and she found she didn't have as much trouble staying awake after lunch as she had before. When the last bell of the day rang, she promised herself an early night's rest and coffee instead of tea in the morning. As much as Mrs. Morgan as humiliated her, the woman had a point. She wouldn't ever get out of Leadworth if she didn't pass her exams.

She halfway home walking with Rory when she realized she had forgotten her science notes in the lab. Normally she would have just left them, but she was afraid the janitorial staff would accidentally throw them away. She made an annoyed noise and checked her watch; hopefully the lab wouldn't be locked up yet.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Rory asked, hesitating on the sidewalk. Amy shook her head. "No, you go on--I've got to stop by the square anyway and pick up some tea, we're nearly out," she replied. "I'll catch up with you in the morning."

Rory nodded and set back off down the street. "Good night then, you!" he called out, and disappeared around the corner. Amy waved back, then turned and headed back towards school.

Despite her brisk walk, it still took her nearly ten minutes to reach school again. It looked mostly deserted aside from a few of the younger students still waiting on their parents to pick them up. The outer doors were still unlocked - Amy breathed a sigh of relief - and she slipped inside, boots clicking quietly on the tiled floor as she made her her way down the hall.

Her relief turned to dismay as she neared the door to the lab. It was closed and from what she could tell from the slit window set into it, the overhead lights were out. She cursed under her breath and pressed her forehead to the glass, looking inside. But there - across the room, she could see that the lab closet was open and that light was streaming out from it. "Maybe it's a janitor," she murmured to herself, and tried the door handle. It opened easily. Walking quietly into the dark room, she could hear the sounds of rustling and muttering coming from within the closet. Suddenly she was quite wary - she hoped she had not just stumbled upon a janitor doing something they weren't supposed to be.

Advancing upon the closet, she came around the door and was surprised not to see a janitor, but a fellow student. He had his back to her and was bent over, rummaging through stacks of white plastic boxes on a middle shelf. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

The intruder yelped in surprise and stood up so quickly that he smacked his head on the shelf above him, dislodging a large box and causing it to tip, showering a packaged lab parts down on him. Amy winced and jumped back. Then he spun around to face her, grimacing in surprise and shock. His face practically beamed bruised dignity. "What are _you_ doing?" he cried back.

Amy stared at him. Maybe he wasn't a student - he was young, like her, but looked just old enough to call his student status into question - but sometimes you couldn't tell with people. He was _dressed_ like a student, if a bit strangely: black boots and rolled-up jeans, and a tucked-in button-up shirt. His face was a bit angular but pleasing, and she thought perhaps his floppy brown hair wanted a bit of cutting. He looked harmless, but nevertheless she was instantly on the defensive.

"_I _am looking for my science notes," she shot back, "not--" She peered closer at the mess he had made. They were freeze-packaged lab specimens. "Not digging around in a closet full of dead fish."

"Oh." He was rubbing the back of his head, looking lamely down at the packaged fish covering his boots. "That's funny, I'm looking for my notes as well."

Amy raised her eyebrows. "In the closet?"

He blinked rapidly at her for a moment before turning back around. "Yes," he said firmly. "In the closet."

Amy frowned in confusion. This guy was definitely weird, and definitely up to no good. She thought fast, trying to determine the best course of action. He had resumed his search of the middle shelf and was ignoring both the fish around his feet and her. She backed towards the double desk where she normally sat, keeping an eye on him and trying to avoid bumping into any chairs. Sure enough, her notes were right where she had left them; after stuffing them into her back, she approached the closet again.

"You know, that closet's normally kept locked," she said casually. "And I know for a fact that the only people who have a key are Mr. Hodges and the head janitor. You're not Mr. Hodges, and I'm pretty sure you're not a janitor." There was a note of warning in her voice.

"Aren't you clever," he murmured dryly, back still turned. Before she had a chance to get insulted he seemed to zero in on something wedged in the back corner of the shelf. "Aha! Found it." He straightened triumphantly and turned back to face her, gripping a small stoppered glass vial full of a clear liquid in his fist. He was grinning widely and his face was transformed for it - his eyes shone with excitement and he radiated excited energy. "Knew it was in there."

She watched while he quickly cleaned the mess he had made. Then, dusting off his jeans, he slipped the vial into his pocket and made to walk out, but stopped when Amy blocked his path with arms crossed. "That's called stealing, you know," she said. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't report you."

"It's not stealing, it's borrowing," he replied, drawing himself up to his full height. "And anyway, I'll be bringing it right back tomorrow. Now if you'll excuse me, I really should be off." He went to step around her but Amy matched him, bringing him up short again. The same happened when he tried the other direction. He sighed impatiently even as his shoulders deflated.

"Oh all right, I'll tell you," he groused. "It's for a project at home. I'm very keen on chemistry you see, and this compound isn't, ah, readily available to the general public. I just need a small amount. And besides, didn't I say I'd bring it straight back?" He smiled winsomely at her. He seemed so earnest and harmless that Amy was tempted to smile back, but she stood her ground. He looked disappointed. "You really aren't going to report me, are you? Don't tell me that in this day and age you've never 'borrowed' anything off the computer to try it first. I assure you, this is practically the same thing."

His argument was working, much to Amy's dislike. _He's probably just an uber science dork playing with his uber chemistry set_, she reasoned. And besides, if he had figured out how to pick the deadbolt on the closet door, he probably deserved anything he could find in it.

And something about him just begged her to inherently trust him.

"Fine," she relented uneasily, and stepped back. He grinned widely at her and moved towards the classroom door. "But you better bring it back," she added, pointing a finger at him. "If I hear after tomorrow that something's gone missing, I'm telling what I saw."

"You won't have to worry about that." He'd stopped at a cabinet by the door to help himself to a glass beaker, and nodded genially at her. "Have a good evening."

Amy squinted at his back, lips pursed; her mind had just placed him. "Hey, wait a minute," she said. "Aren't you in my English class?"

He paused with his hand on the door handle, head whipping around. The look of incredulity on his face would have been comical had it not looked so out of place on him. "What?"

She ignored this. "You are, you're in my class," she said, walking towards him. "I've seen you. You sit in the back by the window."

Strangely, he seemed to be baffled by this. "I - well yes, I am," he stammered. "How did you notice me?"

Amy rolled her eyes. "The way any regular person does," she said bemusedly. "With my eyes."

He blinked at her in silence again for a minute. "Of course," he said finally. After another pause, he relaxed and smiled. "I'm John Smith."

"Amy," she replied, smiling hesitantly back. "Pond."

"Well, Amy Pond, it's getting late, isn't it? We really should be going." He was suddenly all business again, but much more relaxed. He opened the door and walked out, waiting for her to follow before he shut it behind them. Glancing both ways down the hall, he then turned to the lock and pulled something out of his pocket, too quickly for her to see, and fumbled with the door handle. A click and what she swore was a high-pitched buzzing noise followed before he gave a satisfied grunt and tested the handle. It didn't budge. "All set," he murmured. Then he nodded at her once more. "Good evening, Amy. It was nice to meet you." He started off down the hall in the opposite direction from which she had come.

"Nice to meet you too ... I think ..." Amy called back, watching him go. He threw a wave over one shoulder without looking back, and then he was gone. Amy watched the space where he had been for a moment, letting the whole strange meeting sink in; then she shrugged and walked off towards home.

It was only when her father came home a few hours later demanding a pick-me-up that she remembered that she had completely forgotten to get the tea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: **I apologize for my dire lack of knowledge on English sports, but I tried my best. As always, many thanks to Willow for best the best Britpicker ever and saving me from some embarrassing language goofs, and to Allison for correcting my grammar and engaging in meta. :)

Chapter song: Switchfoot - More Than Fine

* * *

The next morning, Amy made an extra-large cup of instant coffee and drank it quickly while getting ready for school. Before she left she set out an extra mug for her father with the powder and sugar already in it, and a left a note on the counter saying she wouldn't be home until the evening. Her first classes of the day passed quickly, and when she walked into English a few hours later her eyes shot immediately to the desk by the back window. Sure enough, John Smith was sitting there, already staring back at her. He gave her a brief nod of recognition as she made her way to her seat.

_Funny that I never really noticed him before_, she thought. _I'm sure he wasn't a student here last year_.

Thankfully the coffee was still doing its job, so Amy had almost no trouble staying awake through Mrs. Morgan's lecture. She dutifully took notes and marked sections in her book to read more about later. Her resolution of the week was to not nod off in class again for at least a fortnight. If she could get that far, she'd re-evaluate things then, and see if she could shoot for another two.

When the lunch bell rang she looked over towards John's desk - she'd thought about introducing herself properly - but he was already gone. _Oh well._ She picked up her bag and headed for the cafe.

After moving through the food line and paying, she looked out across the crowd. To her disappointment, Rory was nowhere to be found, but - there was John, sitting at a small table by the window. After a second's hesitation, she gripped her tray and marched over to him.

"So, robbed any good cupboards lately?" she asked by way of greeting, setting her tray down beside him. He looked up in mild surprise, then cracked a smile as she slid into her seat.

"As a matter of fact, I haven't," he replied. Then he leaned his head in conspiratorially. "And I did put it back." He patted his pockets. "See? Nothing here."

Amy rolled her eyes, grinning slightly. "I don't even want to know what that was really about," she said around a mouthful of salad. "I got to thinking about it, and that chemistry project bit was a rubbish lie."

John frowned. "Really? You think so?"

"Yep." She licked dressing off the back of her fork. "Either that, or you're working for some evil scientist organization. I mean, what could you possibly need for a chemistry project that you can't find at the grocer's? I thought it was all mostly cleaner compounds and salt and stuff. You know, like ammonia and bleach."

John had leaned back in his chair and was giving her an appraising look. "You're very clever, Amy Pond," he said after a minute. "I don't think most people would have given it a second thought."

"Most people would have reported you," she countered.

"Hmm, yes," he mused, rubbing his chin. "By the way, why didn't you? You seem like a very by-the-book kind of girl."

Amy bristled slightly as she considered this; it was a question she had been asking herself all day. "I don't know," she said finally. "I guess you just seemed ... harmless." She shrugged. "And you walked around like you owned the place. And, well ... you didn't attack me or anything."

"_Attack_ you?" John gaped at her. "Attack you, why would I attack you? You were just an unknown variable I hadn't thought to factor in to things, which hardly required violence. A momentary lapse in judgment. I'll know not to be so careless next time."

Amy got that feeling of unease again, like she could hear his words and understand them, but together they didn't make any sense. "You're very odd, you know that?" she muttered, turning her attention back to her salad. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see John's face light up.

"That's the nicest thing anyone's said about me in a long while," he said, propping his boots up on the table and leaning his chair back on two legs. Amy grimaced at the offending shoes and scooted her food tray away from them. Try as she might, it was hard to ignore the way his smile breathed life into an otherwise serious face, the way his eyes sparkled and crinkled up at the corners. Then she processed what he had said, and turned an accusing glare on him.

"Hey - what's this 'next time' about?" she hissed. "You said you wouldn't do that again."

The smile vanished abruptly from John's face and he stood, chair legs clattering back to the floor. "I think that's my cue to leave," he said, giving her the polite nod again. "Enjoy your lunch, Amy Pond." And then he was gone, walking out of the cafe and around the corner, leaving a thoroughly perplexed Amy behind him. She looked to his empty chair, then back to the doorway, then back to his chair.

"He's mad," she said to herself after a moment. She dug back into her salad, resolving to push all thoughts of John Smith from her mind. Sure, he seemed friendly enough, but she _had_ caught him breaking and entering on school grounds. He was probably not the type of person she wanted to associate herself with.

* * *

The final bell of the day found Amy dodging throngs of students to walk over to the rugby pitch that was across the street from the school. Rory participated in a small town league that had matches with other nearby teams every other weekend during the spring, and practiced four days a week. Occasionally, if the weather permitted and she had a free evening, Amy would sit in the swings in the play area that bordered the pitch and watch them play while she caught up on her reading assignments. She had become such a familiar sight that the team had begun to affectionately refer to her as "missus," much to Rory's chagrin.

Amy had hoped to catch Rory at practice since he had been absent at lunch, and he didn't disappoint. As she came around the edge of the play equipment she could see him out in the middle of the pitch, kicking a ball around with a few of his teammates. One of them saw her and nudged Rory, who turned and waved. One of the other guys whistled at her; she sketched a sarcastic salute back before dropping into her usual swing, setting her bag on the ground next to her.

As she pulled out her English text and settled in for a long read, the rest of the team finished assembling and started their usual set of drills. She let the sounds of their shouts and footfalls fade into background noise as she pored over the finer points of Romantic literature versus Classic. The rugby pitch had become an odd sort of refuge for her, a place where she could study in relative peace without her father interrupting. Everything was just less stressful when she couldn't hear her father shouting insults at the telly in a boozed-up blur.

As the afternoon wore on she became aware that the team was having an exceptionally good practice. They weren't quite the worst team in the league, but the cheers and yells coming from the pitch indicated league-winning material. She put her book down to watch in interest.

Matthew McCormack had gone for at least seven tries, something Amy couldn't remember him ever doing; however, he had been tackled before he could successfully ground the ball every time, which was another thing she couldn't remember the team doing so well. Even Rory, who was admittedly not the best rugby player, had gone for a try (and was similarly tackled). Both sides of the team drill were so evenly matched that not a single point had been scored. Despite this, their coach looked overjoyed. His face was animated as the team met for a post-practice talk.

"Nice practice," Amy said bemusedly when Rory came to meet her later at the swings. "I've never seen you boys play like that before!"

Rory smiled tiredly at her; he was covered in dirt and sweat. "You're telling me," he said as they left the park and headed off down the pavement. "I think we're just as surprised as you are. Even Coach was ... don't think I've ever seen him so happy, not one nasty word today."

"Matthew must be practicing, or training a lot," Amy insisted. "He was all over the field. And you!" She nudged him with her elbow, grinning widely. "Even you looked great! When have you been sneaking off to practice?"

Rory shrugged modestly, ducking his head. "I haven't, no more than normal," he replied. "Just a lucky practice I guess."

"We'll see," Amy said. "But I'm definitely coming to practice on Friday. I can't miss it if this turns out to be a regular thing."

"Oh boy," Rory mumbled, grabbing his water bottle from his bag and taking a swig. "Oh, and sorry about lunch. I had to nip out to the green and get Natalie another gift for tomorrow. Apparently Mum doesn't think a card to Marks & Spencer is an appropriate wedding present."

Amy smiled a little. "Well, it _is_ a little impersonal, Rory."

He made a face. "How am I supposed to know what girls like for their wedding?" he said defensively. "I didn't want to do something boring like towels, which I'm sure she's gotten plenty of already. I thought they could use a card to go get whatever they wanted, but _noooo_." He did a perfect imitation of his mother. "'Gift cards look cheap, Rory. How about some nice linens instead?'"

Amy laughed out loud and elbowed him again. "Be nice to your mum, she only means well. What did you end up getting?"

Rory grimaced. "Towels."

Amy's continued laughter echoed down the street long after they'd turned a corner.

* * *

Thursday night found Amy one hour into her short shift at the local shop on the green. Business had been slow so far and she was thoroughly bored. She'd cleaned the area around the till at least three times, straightened the sweets counter, and was now sorting the magazine rack in alphabetical order. Her job was far from exciting and glamorous, but it gave her some extra pocket cash and got her out of the house. She sighed and checked her watch. Three more hours and she was free to go.

The bell on the front door jangled, signaling a customer, and Amy hurried back to the till. She was surprised to see that it was John; he was looking around like he'd never set foot into a general store before.

She folded her hands on the counter. "Can I help you, sir?" she asked dryly.

John's head whipped around to face her and his eyebrows went up. "Amy Pond!" he exclaimed. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Her forehead wrinkled. "Um, I work here?" He really was an odd one.

"Oh, of course. Aren't you just everywhere, then?" John grinned at her and stuffed his hands in his pockets, sauntering up to the counter. "And yes, as a matter of fact, you may be able to help me." He rocked back on the heels of his feet. "Do you carry any cleaning concentrate, the type for mopping floors with?"

Amy gave him a hard stare. "That has ammonia in it."

"Which is very good for getting rid of bacteria on floors," he said brightly. When Amy crossed her arms and continued to stare, his shoulders sagged. "I can't get anything past you, can I? Whatever happened to 'the customer is always right'?"

"If I tell you where it is, I wouldn't be aiding and abetting something criminal, would I?" Amy asked suspiciously. Behind John, the doorbell jangled again and an elderly lady came in.

"Of course not!" John reassured her, and Amy thought he was being entirely too cheerful. "Can't a fellow clean his floors without an ulterior motive?"

"I'm not so sure about you," Amy muttered. The elderly lady had squeezed in next to John at the counter and was holding up a finger.

"Excuse me, miss ..."

Amy smiled impatiently at her. "Just one second, ma'am." She turned her attention back to John. "All the way in the back to your left, past the freezers and next to the dishwasher powder."

John beamed. "Excellent. Thank you very much." He pivoted on one heel and strode down the aisle. Meanwhile, her newest customer was digging through her oversize purse, searching for what Amy could only guess was her chequebook. She looked up at Amy through rheumy eyes.

"Excuse me, miss, but could you tell me where you keep your tinned sardines?"

Halfway down the aisle, John turned around to look back at Amy. "_'Tinned sardines'??_" he mouthed over the old lady's head, making a face like he'd just eaten something vile. Amy had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud and getting in trouble.

"Down that aisle right there, just past the crisps," she politely managed, standing on tiptoe to point. The old lady thanked her and moved slowly off down the aisle. She glanced back towards John, her grin fading; he was walking backwards, hands still in his pockets, smiling broadly at her like they were sharing a secret. She looked away and grabbed a pen, tapping it idly on the counter. He turned back around to face forward at the end of the aisle, and now she could just barely see the top of his head over the shelves full of goods. She frowned. It wasn't that she didn't exactly trust him, but he was a rather curious person, and something about him just seemed ... off. Like he wasn't quite normal.

He reappeared with an armful of floor cleaner bottles just as the elderly lady was paying for her sardines. He kept his eyes trained on the ground as she fumbled with her chequebook, a small smile playing on his lips. When she had finally finished paying and was shuffling toward the door, he dumped the bottles onto the counter with a loud clatter. Amy raised an eyebrow at them.

"Will that be all for you today, sir?" She had no idea why she was playing at being the bland, ignorant cashier - maybe she just didn't want to make things easy for him.

It didn't seem to faze John; he was still smiling widely at her with a thoroughly mischievous glint in his eye. "Yes, that'll do," he replied.

Amy rang up the bottles while John dug through his pockets. He deposited three copper coins, a length of twine, a sweet wrapper, and an old brooch on the counter, then looked expectantly at her. She looked back at him like he was crazy.

"Are you having me on?" she demanded. "You can't pay with that!"

John blinked twice. "What? Oh. _Oh_." He hastily scooped them off the counter and back into his pocket, looking flustered, then bug back into his pockets. Eventually he produced a few pound notes and handed them over. "Sorry about that."

"Not a problem." Eyeing him suspiciously, Amy accepted the money and charged it. The till opened with a clang and she quickly counted out his change, then handed it to him. Their fingers brushed as she dropped the coins into his hand; he suddenly reached out with his other hand and caught hers between his own, his face turning serious.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?" he asked.

Amy froze. He was _not_ asking her out on a date. He couldn't be, they barely knew each other, and hadn't she made it plain that she didn't quite trust him? Even worse ... as she gaped at him, she wasn't even sure she would outright refuse him. The same quirks that made him unreadable and odd also intrigued her - and attracted her, if she was being honest with herself. The way he was currently looking at her, like she was the only other person on Earth besides him, didn't hurt either.

"I'm - I'm going to watch some rugby," she stammered stupidly. Curse Rory and his team. _Curse_ them.

Surprisingly, John took this in his stride. "Rugby," he said, dropping her hand. He was smiling that easy smile again. "That's good. That's really good."

Amy open and closed her mouth a few times. "Why?" she asked.

He shrugged as he shoved his change into his pocket, grabbing a bag and putting the bottles into it. "I thought I might ask you out to dinner," he replied, "but it's no matter. Rugby is much more interesting."

She was so confused all she could do was blink stupidly at him. So he _was_ intending to ask her out - and she'd turned him down, and he was _happy?_ For all he knew, she could be lying so she didn't have to give a straight yes or no. She grabbed the bag from him and finished loading the bottles up.

"But I--" she started. John interrupted by taking the bag back from her and shaking his head, tapping the side of his nose.

"Don't think about it," he said pleasantly. "Have a good time tomorrow, Amy. I'll see you around."

He winked at her before turning to walk out the door, whistling cheerfully. The doorbell jangled behind him. Amy could only stare after him for a moment in speechless shock. Then she swallowed and sighed.

"Definitely mad," she muttered.

* * *

The action on the rugby pitch would have been more than enough to keep a Leadworth fan's attention, but Amy found herself unable to concentrate. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about John Smith since he had left the shop the night before. She'd replayed the scene in her mind a million times, but still she couldn't make sense of it. What guy in their right mind would be pleased about being rejected for a date? And for that matter, what guy would ask a girl out after having met her only three days previously?

She kept thinking back to when he had grabbed her hand. It wasn't just the action itself that had surprised her; it had also been the way his hands had felt. His skin had been ice cold, enough to make her want to reflexively jerk her hand back. The temperature outdoors could be to blame, as the nights were still chilly this time of year, but ... she shook her head mentally. Cold skin normally did not bother her - Rory was cold-natured - but John had felt as though he'd just removed his hands from fifteen minutes inside a freezer.

Surely that wasn't normal?

Despite the perplexing question of his body temperature, when he'd held her hand she'd felt - warm. His touch had the effect of easing her suspicions about him and making her feel safe. And his eyes ... they were just on the green size of hazel, she'd been interested to note. The few times she'd seen him they'd almost always been sparkling with mirth, crinkling up in the corners and making him seem almost puckish. Either life vastly amused him, or he was laughing at his own private joke. His cheerful attitude was infectious and made her forget all about the uneasiness she had felt once or twice around him. It was as though he were saying, _trust me. I won't hurt you. I'm here to help._

She wondered idly if perhaps that was the most dangerous aspect of him - that deep down she already trusted him, when he'd given her no real reason to. Wasn't that how psychotics operated? Yet, she couldn't shake the niggling feeling that her meeting John had been important, that something was about to change, even though logic told her that he was simply a very weird bloke who spoke in riddles.

He didn't look half bad, either.

She sighed and recrossed her legs. Over on the pitch Matthew McCormack had just successfully completed a try, to the raucous cheering of his teammates. She watched as he jogged to the sideline to grab a quick drink of water before rejoining the game.

"Oh, I didn't know this was just a practice! I thought a real game was on."

Amy jumped, startled, and looked around to see John standing just behind her. He was looking at the pitch with an excited look on his face, and grinned at her when she turned to face him "Fancy meeting you here," he added.

Amy felt a brief flash of annoyance as she turned back to face forward. Why was he suddenly turning up everywhere she went? If she didn't know any better she'd think he was stalking her.

"What are you doing here?" she grumbled.

He pouted as sat down in the swing next to her. "I like rugby too," he replied. "Am I not allowed to come and watch?"

"Not when you're stalking me, you're not," she muttered, and very pointedly concentrated on the English book in her lap.

John frowned at her. "I'm not stalking you, Amy," he said. "You just happen to be everywhere I'd like to be at the moment."

Amy rolled her eyes and turned a page in her book. John took hold of the swings chain and stretched his legs out in front of him, settling in to watch the team drill. As the minutes passed a sort of comfortable silence settled over them. If he was a stalker, at least he was an amiable one, Amy thought. After another minute she closed her book and looked at him.

"So, are you new here?" she asked. "I didn't see you around last term."

John glanced at her and nodded. "Yep, I am. Moved in over the Christmas holidays."

She felt a small stab of pity. "That must have been hard, moving away so close to starting uni," she said. "I'd be furious with my dad if he made me do that."

John shrugged lightly. "You make do," he replied. "And it's not really so bad. I'm, ah, used to moving around."

"Oh?" Amy frowned. "You parents' work, then?"

There was a slight pause before he nodded. "Yes."

Amy sensed she was treading on a delicate subject matter, so she fell silent and turned awkwardly back to her book. However, she hadn't finished a paragraph before John was turning in his swing to face her.

"What about you?" he asked. "I'm clueless about you, Amy Pond. Care to enlighten me?"

Amy couldn't keep from blushing a little at his forthrightness; she ducked her head shyly. "There's not much to tell," she said modestly. "I'm pretty boring, honestly."

"Oh, rubbish." He was smiling again, looking at her with that gaze that was starting to have a funny effect on her insides. "Impossible. I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"Well!" Amy snorted a laugh, amused by his teasing arrogance. "If you must know ... well ... I don't know." She shrugged. "I've lived here my whole life. Can't wait to get my A levels over and done with. And, ah ..." She fumbled; she never had been good at talking about herself. "My favorite color is blue? Really, I mean it, I'm boring. I don't do much besides go to school, work, and hang out with Rory."

John lifted an eyebrow. "Rory?"

Amy smiled. "Yeah, he's my best mate, ever since we were little." She nodded at the pitch. "He's out there playing right now."

John nodded slowly, following her gaze. "I see. So, are you and he, uh ..."

"Are we ..." Amy blinked. "Oh, me and Rory? No! Oh, no." She laughed, shaking her head. "No, we're not together. He's like a brother to me. Though sometimes I think Rory wouldn't know what to do with a girl if one walked up and kissed him square on the mouth." She smiled fondly. "Nah, we're just mates."

She tried to ignore the way John's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Well noted," he said mildly. "And he plays rugby?"

"Yeah." As if on cue, Rory gained possession of the ball and started advancing it downfield. Amy sat up straighter. "He's not the best one out there, but he plays hard. Lately he's been doing really well, whole team has in fact--" She stopped midsentence as Rory narrowly missed being tackled. He stumbled slightly before resuming his charge to the goal line, moving between the defenders with ease. She was amazed - she'd never seen him play so fluidly before. The way he was handling the ball looked almost preternatural.

John was watching the drill with interest now. "That's him with the ball?"

Amy nodded, then suddenly reached out and gripped John's hand where it gripped his swing chain. He looked at her hand curiously. "Ooh, go - _go_ - that's right," she cried, eyes fixated on the action. "Hold 'em off boys, let him through--"

Yards from the goal line, one of the defenders put on a sudden burst of speed, coming up from the blind spot on Rory's right. Just as Rory dove for a try, the defender leaped at him. They collided with a sickening crunch over the goal line and went down in a tangle of limbs. Amy gasped and jumped up from the swings, hands over her mouth.

"Oh my god, Rory--"

Neither he nor the defender were moving. Matthew McCormack and another teammate were running over to them; Amy could see that they were frowning and worried. Just when she couldn't stand it any longer and was about to run down to the pitch herself, Rory sat up, blinking fuzzily. A second later the defender did the same, and after shaking his head to clear it he looked at Rory in apparent confusion. Matthew and the other player started laughing and reached out to help their teammates to their feet, clapping them on the back. Around the field, the rest of the team whistled and cheered.

"Oh, they should get checked out, that was a really bad hit," Amy murmured. But Rory seemed to be fine - more than fine, in fact; he wasn't even limping. He and the defender were talking excitedly as the coach came over to hand them their water bottles. They each drank deeply - Rory even squeezed some over his head to cool off - before jogging back out to rejoin their teammates. Amy sighed in relief and sat back down.

John was watching Rory thoughtfully and chewing on a thumbnail. He stood abruptly.

"I've got to go," he said, dusting off his trousers. "I'll see you on Monday, yes?"

Amy frowned up at him. "Sure, I guess." He started to jog towards the street, but stopped and came back.

"Oh, and if Rory asks you if you want any of his water, say no."

He turned and headed back to the street. Amy stared after him open-mouthed for a second before jumping up and running after him. "Wait just a minute, what's that supposed to mean?" she cried.

He didn't stop or even look back at her. "Don't touch that water, Amy."

She caught up with him and grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop. "What are you trying to say?" she demanded angrily. "Are you saying that Rory--"

John calmly took her hand and pried it off his arm. His face had turned serious. "I'm saying I wouldn't drink that water if I were you. Your Rory hasn't done anything wrong ... in fact, I'd tell him not to drink it anymore either."

Amy looked over at Rory, who was running across the field like nothing had happened, then back to John, then back to Rory again. Her mind was spinning. "I don't understand," she said lamely.

"All in good time." John tapped the side of his nose, smiling slightly. "But I've really got to go. Promise me you won't drink any of that water, Amy."

She looked back at Rory. "Well, I--"

"Promise?" John was still smiling, but his eyes were serious.

She sighed. "I promise," she said hesitantly.

"Excellent. I'll see you on Monday." He gave her a smile that reached his eyes, then turned and walked away.

Amy walked slowly back to her swing and sank into it slowly, deep in thought. If she'd thought John was mad before, now she was convinced he was completely bonkers. Normal people didn't go around breaking into cupboards and buying ammonia and making cryptic statements about her best friend's water.

_Seriously, what does he think he's playing at?_

But there had been no doubting that John had been serious, at least from his own point of view. He was completely sure of himself, that much Amy knew. She looked back out at Rory again. The team had finished their drills and were grouped on the sideline, chatting amongst each other and drinking copious amounts of water from their bottles. Amy frowned.

What could John have possibly meant by 'don't drink the water'?


	3. Author's Note

This story has sat neglected for over two years now, but that doesn't mean I've forgotten about it. In fact, I think about it quite often and occasionally even get the urge to work on it, but I'm a bit torn. See, I first started writing this in January of 2010, months before Series 5 even aired and we got our first look at Eleven, Amy, and Rory onscreen. In fact we didn't even know Rory's last name—it was revealed a week after I'd posted the first chapter, and I had to go back and change the one I'd made up. And while it was always my intention for this story to be an AU, I'm a little afraid that—now that we've got two full series of them under our belt and a third on the way—that it will look _too_ AU.

But how AU is too AU?

It's not my only worry. I had a full outline planned for this entire story, beginning to end, and was halfway through writing Chapter Three when The Eleventh Hour aired and I got, well, distracted. My next worry is that the villain and the conflict of the piece is too stupid to hold any weight, or that even if it's a decent idea it won't come across well in execution. But mainly I'm worried that the characters (the Doctor, Amy, Rory, even secondary characters like their parents) will feel so off-course from how they've since been established onscreen that it will put readers off.

Now, I'm a believer in writing for writing's sake, but I am interested in some input here from anyone who happens to read. Should I continue this story? Is it still worth bothering with? Does anyone even still care to know what happens?

I'll leave this 'chapter' up for a little while, and hopefully feedback—if I get any—will help in my decision. Hell, I may just decide to continue it anyway, just to see if I can actually finish a chaptered story. (I never have.) In the meantime, thank you!


End file.
